The chest all made of paulownia,
how terribly light it is.

   The thin straight grain of the wood called paulownia,
its dry lustre,

   the handles on the drawers,
with only the parts the fingers touch,

   faintly smudged
with grease.

  The white body
set on the cold tatami.

  The empty chest
is as sensuous

   as the female heart
that has lost all.

  The drawer has nothing in it
but a folding sheet with paper strings (1)

  and a thick bundle of hair
scythed at its root

  crawling, snaking
like a catfish at the bottom.